


Memories Without End

by catatonic1242



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Cooking, Bad Fashion, Biting, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Break Up, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Domestic Boyfriends, Explicit Sexual Content, Fashionista!Jensen, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Gay Panic, Hand Jobs, I Love You, Kissing, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Naked Cuddling, Nudity, Pie, Post-Break Up, Rimming, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 18:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16792570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catatonic1242/pseuds/catatonic1242
Summary: A collection of Cockles firsts, including kisses, nudity and small kitchen fires.





	Memories Without End

**Author's Note:**

> _“First and the last hang about in memories without end.”_ \- Alka Dimri Saklani
> 
> I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the entire Cockles community over on tumblr. I love that Dumpster Mansion almost as much as I love these two fools. 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://catatonic1242.tumblr.com/).

The first time they touch, Jensen nearly physically recoils from the spark of it. It feels like he’s walked across a carpeted floor in stocking feet and then been shocked by static electricity. He wonders for just a second if his hair is actually standing on end.

Misha’s hand is warm and rough where it grips Jensen’s firmly, like he’s spent at least some part of his life doing manual labor in out in the noonday sun. Jensen is suddenly acutely aware of the softness of his own hands. Self-consciously, he withdraws from the handshake quickly, backing up a few steps and nodding cordially at Misha.

“It’s good to meet you, man,” Jensen says, hoping that his voice doesn’t betray his sudden unease. He can’t figure out exactly why he’s uncomfortable in the presence of this man he’s known for exactly 30 seconds. Misha seems normal enough, if a bit quirky - he hasn’t been to wardrobe yet, so he’s wearing jeans that are ripped at the knees with tennis shoes and a colorful novelty t-shirt. 

“You as well,” Misha says, “I have heard a lot about you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” Jensen laughs, a strained sound that he forces out between gritted teeth. He hopes that Misha can’t hear the way his voice cracks inexplicably at the end of his sentence.

“Mostly,” answers Misha.

Jensen waits several beats for the new guy to elaborate, not sure whether or not he’s joking. When Misha seems disinclined to continue, Jensen replies, “OK, well, I can’t say I’ve heard very much about you.” He’s not sure if Misha is weird or if he’s just shy, so Jensen decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Where are you from?” he asks.

There’s an even longer pause as Misha seems to consider the question, a look passing over his face as if it’s one of the oddest things he has ever been asked. Jensen has just decided the guy is actually more weird than shy when Misha answers, “California, I guess.”

“You guess?” Jensen asks.

“It’s where I’m from most recently,” Misha explains.

That doesn’t actually explain anything to Jensen, but it doesn’t exactly open the door to any follow-up questions. At a loss for what to do next, Jensen stands awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. As uncomfortable as he is himself, Misha seems almost annoyingly at ease. He’s looking casually around as if taking everything in, analyzing it and making judgements or decisions that Jensen can’t hope to understand. 

“All right, well, welcome to set,” Jensen finally shrugs. “I guess I’ll see you out there.”

“You too,” Misha answers. Jensen turns to walk away but is suddenly seized by the impulse to look back. When he does, he finds Misha smiling at him, all gums and blue eyes. Jensen suddenly realizes that his fingertips are still tingling where their hands had touched. He resists the urge to flex his own fingers, choosing instead to pretend that everything is normal.

*****

Jensen wants to touch Misha again only, he tells himself, to confirm that the first time was some kind of fluke.

They’ve been on set all day, mostly milling about waiting for the ellipsoidal spot and effects to be reset. Jensen feels like he’s been staring into the bright lights for so long that he doesn’t even have to pretend to be blinded by Cas’s wings anymore. He’s almost to the point of seeing sparks when he closes his eyes, so it’s a relief when Kim calls for a break. Two wardrobe guys come up and take Misha’s trenchcoat off, hustling away so they can reset it with new squibs. Underneath, his shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing tanned forearms.

Without the coat and the lights, Misha does just look like a lost and distracted businessman who has wandered away from his day job.

Jensen hangs back for a minute, watching him head over to the craft services station, where he pours himself a cup of hot water and then stands near a table looking puzzled.

Jensen makes his way over and grabs a cup of his own, filling it with steaming hot coffee. “You looking for something?” he asks Misha, who still seems confused.

“Tea?” he asks, his voice coming out low and raspy. He clears his throat and the next sentence comes out more normally. “My throat is bothering me.”

“Probably the voice,” Jensen comments without thinking. He sees Misha’s eyes widen imperceptibly, as if he’s said something offensive. “No, I mean,” he hurries to continue, “it’s good. Deep.”

Misha stares at him, fixing Jensen with those ridiculously blue eyes. Jensen finds himself oddly uncomfortable under the gaze, so he looks away and studies the table. 

“Oh!” Jensen nearly shouts when he spots a battered, half-empty box of teabags hidden behind a stack of bagels. “Here! Tea.” He reaches out and snags one bag, holding it in his palm and offering it to Misha. 

When Misha reaches out for the tea, their palms touch again. It’s unnecessarily long, the contact between them. This second time is different than the first - rather than static electricity, it almost feels magnetic, as if Jensen couldn’t pull his hand away if he tried. Misha’s hand slides over his own, fingertips starting at the base of Jensen’s thumb and moving upward as he takes the bag.

Jensen realizes he’s still holding out his now-empty hand when Misha drops the teabag into his own cup. He covers by lifting his hand to his face and pretending to cough. 

“Perhaps you would like some tea, too?” Misha says quizzically. Jensen again finds himself feeling that he’s under inspection.

“No, I’m fine.” Jensen drops his hand and takes a drink of the coffee he’s still holding. It’s hotter than he expected and his gulp is too big; it scalds his throat on the way down, but Jensen barely feels the burn. Rather, he’s suddenly distracted by the exposed flesh of Misha’s arms. Jensen’s fingers twitch like magnets attracted to lodestone.

He finds himself both grateful and oddly disappointed when the AD calls them both back to set.

*****

Jensen goes in without thinking, caught up in the impulse, and he catches Misha by surprise, so the first time they kiss, it hurts. The angle is awkward. Their teeth clack together and Misha’s stubble rubs Jensen’s cheek in a not-quite-sexy way. He’s just thinking about how to adjust to better align their mouths, maybe sneak out his tongue and lick at the seam of Misha’s lips, when it ends.

Misha makes a surprised noise deep in his throat and pulls back. In response, Jensen’s heart, which was already threatening to beat out of his chest, feels like it stops. He moves to turn away, every instinct in his body telling him to flee. The last thing Jensen wants is an awkward conversation or a confused stare or, worse, a outraged ‘what the hell was that?’ thrown at him. Before he can get away, Misha reaches out and grabs Jensen by the bicep.

“What the hell was that?” But Misha isn’t outraged. His tone isn’t accusatory; rather, he sounds almost awed, and Jensen finds that any rational thoughts he may have had before the kiss are long gone, along with his impulse to turn tail and go. He meets Misha’s eyes to find him staring, pupils wide. 

“I… have absolutely no idea,” Jensen answers slowly. He looks down at Misha’s lips, which are slightly parted, and he loses his train of thought. Instead of explaining himself, Jensen finds he wants to lean back in and do it over. He wants to slow it down, be less desperate, sink into a kiss instead of nervously grabbing at it.

Jensen snaps back to reality when Misha whispers, “I think you should get an idea.” His grip is firm around Jensen’s arm and Jensen’s mind wanders again, wondering if Misha runs hotter than normal human beings - it feels like he’s being scalded. Or maybe Jensen’s cold. Maybe all of the blood has rushed away from his limbs and into his core, like he’s hypothermic.

Jensen realizes that Misha is staring at him, waiting for an answer, and he has to replay the last thing that he heard and then come up with a fast answer. He goes with unintentionally honest. “I don’t know what that means,” he tries. After he’s said it, Jensen realizes the words explain nothing and everything at the same time.

But Misha does not seem to interpret it that way. “It means,” Misha says, without releasing his grasp, “that you should know exactly what you’re doing next time.” Misha squeezes Jensen’s arm firmly before letting go. He gives Jensen one last glance, fixing him with a look that could communicate any number of things, before turning on his heel and walking away.

Jensen watches him go. He hopes, briefly, that Misha will stop short, that he’ll turn around and walk back to him, or at least cast a look over his shoulder. But Misha turns a corner and is quickly out of sight without doing either. “Next time?” Jensen whispers to himself. 

*****

It’s better the second time they kiss.

Misha seems ready for it, seems as though he has been expecting it, when Jensen leans in and kisses him softly. Their lips are lined up perfectly and they move in sync together. It’s gentle, a small press that slowly evolves into something deeper. It couldn’t be better if they’d rehearsed it.

Jensen parts his lips a little to slide his tongue against Misha’s closed mouth. He tastes faintly of aromatic tea, but not the cheap crap from craft services - it’s the flavor of the loose Moroccan tea that Jensen bought and sheepishly gifted to him, along with a copper tea ball, a few weeks ago. Jensen licks again and Misha opens to him. The taste of tea is stronger on Misha’s tongue, smooth and minty with a hint of milk. He’s surprised that Misha’s mouth actually seems a little cool.

Misha’s upper arm is firm where Jensen’s hand lands on it, and he grabs on as the kiss deepens. Jensen widens his mouth and their tongues twist together, pushing back and forth between their lips. It’s almost a delicate movement, a slow exploration.

Jensen pulls away first, scanning Misha’s face, eager for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud. 

Misha seems to understand, at least in part, though he doesn’t speak. Instead, Misha pulls Jensen back to him for a third kiss, one decidedly different from the first two. It’s faster, hungrier. Someone groans - Jensen’s not sure if it’s him or Misha, but it doesn’t matter, because Misha lands his hands on Jensen’s waist. Jensen moves his free hand up, threading his fingers into the curling hairs at the back of Misha’s collar and holding on. 

They break apart just long enough for Misha to reach up and stroke a thumb over the stubble on Jensen’s cheek. The look in his eyes is something that Jensen can’t identify, so instead of getting lost in it - though he could - Jensen leans in and takes the fourth and fifth kisses directly from Misha. Then he traces his lips down to the line of Misha’s jaw. Misha’s five o’clock shadow is rough under his lips. It’s a foreign sensation, but not unpleasant. Jensen presses several closed-mouth kisses in a line to Misha’s earlobe, which he then snags between his teeth. He’s sure, this time, that it’s Misha who groans when he bites down.

Misha runs his hands from Jensen’s waist around to his back, pulling him closer. Jensen noses at the warm skin of Misha’s neck, luxuriating in his musky, earthy smell. He smells as if he’s been outside in the sunshine all day, even though Jensen knows they’ve both been on set under artificial lights since before dawn.

When Jensen finally pulls his face away from Misha’s skin, he opens his eyes to see Misha smirking slightly at him. It’s a lopsided expression, all lips and no teeth. It’s endearing as hell.

“What?” Jensen asks

“Seems like you know exactly what you’re doing now.”

*****

The first time Jensen sees Misha naked, it’s like a revelation.

Misha is tan and broader than he looks under Cas’s ever-present trench coat. He’s much more muscular than Jensen has imagined during excited moments alone.

He's hard, they both are. Half of their long lunch break has already passed while they exchanged lazy kisses and lingering touches, a slow build to their naked bodies finally, finally pressing against each other. Flat on his back on the bed in his own trailer, Jensen steals a minute to look Misha up and down, fully taking in the sight of him. 

Misha’s hip bones protrude just slightly, and Jensen is suddenly seized by an overwhelming desire to run his tongue over them. So he does, lapping and sucking at each one in turn until Misha is writhing under his mouth, arching off of the bed. Then he moves on to Misha's thighs. They're firm and solid, and Jensen's heart hammers when he pictures those thighs wrapped around his own waist. 

They don't have much time for that now, though, so Jensen doesn't linger too long. He nips at the sensitive flesh above Misha's knees, then runs his palms up and takes Misha's cock in his hand.

Misha grunts, a guttural sound, but doesn't thrust. Instead, he holds out a hand and crooks two fingers at Jensen.

"C'mere," he says, tugging ineffectively at Jensen's shoulder.

Without releasing his hand, Jensen shifts back up to the head of the bed. Misha's mouth is on him instantly in a deep and unrelenting kiss. Jensen begins to stroke and Misha inhales sharply against his lips.

Jensen isn't paying attention to Misha's hands, so he's surprised when a firm grip wraps around his own cock and begins to pump, matching Jensen's own tempo. Jensen revels in the touch, in Misha's strong hand around him. Every other sensation is suddenly diminished, the feel of Misha in his hand and wrapped around him his only focus point.

They stay like that, touching and kissing and stroking each other, until Misha pulls his face away, his breathing ragged. Misha's hand speeds up on Jensen's cock. Jensen takes that as a cue and increases his own pace.

From just a few inches away, Jensen watches Misha come. He bites down on his own lip and paints Jensen's hand with it, jerking and thrusting and looking straight at Jensen the entire time.

The noises Misha makes, the look on his face - they make Jensen's stomach flip. Misha shifts forward and kisses him, and when Jensen comes, it is with his lips parted and Misha's tongue in his mouth. Misha strokes him all the way through it until he's deliciously spent. There's no coherent thought left in Jensen's head - he's just hanging in the air somewhere outside of his own body, more relaxed than he has felt in months.

He's just floating down when there's a knock on the trailer door, and a PA calls out, "They're ready for you!"

Jensen buries his face in Misha's shoulder as the other man chuckles. "Are they?" Misha asks. "Are they ready for us?"

*****

The first time they actually have sex, it’s like nothing Jensen has ever felt before. 

He's done some experimenting, sure. Danneel is always open to it when he asks her to add a couple of fingers during a blowjob or to peg him from behind. He's not an inexperienced guy, wouldn't describe himself as vanilla. 

But Jensen's never felt a tongue slide in past his rim like Misha's, never felt quite as debauched and gloriously filthy as that act alone makes him feel. And he's never actually had anyone work, slowly and attentively, to stretch him out the way that Misha does. Misha uses fingers and lube and gentle touches, bringing Jensen dangerously close to the edge several times but never quite letting him crest - he backs off, slows down, drives Jensen to distraction. And he's never felt the hot, slow burn of an actual cock sliding into him; there's never been someone like Misha sharing in the sensation on the other end.

He's not entirely certain how to describe it when Misha bottoms out. Jensen's not even sure if he could, not when Misha is pressed up against him like this, buried deep inside of him.

Jensen got the soles of his feet on Misha's calves. They fit perfectly there, as if the contours of Misha's legs were carved from marble with Jensen in mind. Misha leans down and touches their open mouths together; there's no tongue, just shared breath, panting and gasping into each other. When Misha breaks away, he looks down at Jensen from above, and his gaze makes Jensen feel raw, as if his chest is suddenly too small for everything it contains. 

It's so much, too much all at once. Jensen puts his palms on Misha's chest and pushes him gently away. Misha withdraws, his face a question mark. Jensen maneuvers himself around on the bed, flipping flat onto his stomach and spreading his legs. 

"This way," Jensen says, folding his hands under his own face. He closes his eyes and waits.

It's only one beat, maybe two, and then Misha is over him again, his warm skin pressing against Jensen, cock sliding inside. He goes deeper in this position, but it's less intense, somehow, now that Jensen's not watching Misha watch him. When Misha presses him into the mattress, it creates a wonderful friction on his cock. Jensen ruts up and down, losing himself in the sensation. Misha fills his ass, thick and hard.

In this position, Misha is pressed against Jensen's back, and his shaky breaths echo through Jensen's body until they're breathing in time together. Misha bites down on Jensen's shoulder, hard enough to bruise, and Jensen's vision goes white. 

Misha is mumbling something, a long string of words and sounds and profanities, but Jensen can't focus long enough to decipher it and he can't catch his breath long enough to ask. Jensen is vaguely aware that he's making his own obscene noises, panting and cursing. He's pleading for something, though he doesn't know what. 

*****

The first time they wake up in the same bed, it's Jensen who stirs first. 

It's been years since he woke up with anyone other than Danneel, so for the first few seconds, he forgets it's actually Misha sleeping next to him in his bed. But then Misha sounds a short snore and Jensen's chest seizes in panic. His own breath tastes like a dirty sweatsock, he has to pee and he's pretty sure he smells like sex and dried sweat from the night before. 

Misha snores again. Jensen turns his head slightly to look. Misha's on his stomach, one hand under his pillow, the other down by his side. His mouth is parted just slightly and his dark eyelashes are fanned out in half-moons. Aside from the occasional snore, Misha is completely still.

When Jensen has reassured himself that Misha is still fast asleep, he slowly pulls back his section of the blanket and tentatively sticks one foot out. When Misha doesn't move, Jensen slides out of bed as quietly as he can. He backs into the bathroom, watching for any indication that Misha is stirring, until he's made his way into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. 

His bladder is desperate to be emptied, so that's the first thing he does, feeling a bit like Tom Hanks in _A League of Their Own_ because of how long it lasts. When that's finally done, he moves to wash his hands. As he does, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

Jensen's hair is sticking out in about a thousand different directions, none of them the same, and it's sex-dirty. There's a faint mark on the left side of his chest, just above his nipple, from where he remembers Misha biting him the night before. But, for the first time in a long time, Jensen thinks he actually looks well-rested. He certainly feels that way, despite way his body aches in several different places.

He smirks at himself in the mirror, then grabs his toothbrush and gets to work ridding himself of morning dragon breath. After a quick whore's bath with a washcloth in the sink, he swipes on some fresh deodorant and then opens the bathroom door.

Misha is still asleep, but he's rolled over onto his side. With the same soft footsteps he took before, Jensen makes his way back to the bed and climbs in, facing away from Misha. Then, slowly, the backs up into Misha until their bodies are aligned.

Jensen dozes against the warmth of Misha's skin for another twenty minutes until Misha stirs and throws a lazy arm around him, making Jensen into the little spoon. 

"Good morning," Misha rumbles into Jensen's back. 

He rolls over to face Misha, still wrapped in his arms, and smiles sleepily at him. "Good morning," Jensen answers. He leans forward and catches Misha's mouth, kissing him fully awake. 

When Misha finally pulls away, there's a puzzled look on his face. "Are you aware that you taste like mint first thing in the morning? How is that possible?"

Jensen shrugs one shoulder casually. "Dunno. Never had anyone tell me that before," he answers.

*****

The first time they cook dinner together, it's a complete disaster.

Jensen doesn't know how to cook, not really - he can throw a barbecue, sure. Steaks and burgers and hot dogs aren't particularly complicated, even when he makes the patties himself. But what Misha has planned is a whole new level for him.

When Jensen shows up at Misha's apartment, the kitchen counters are strewn with piles of ingredients and cooking utensils, most of which Jensen doesn't even recognize. Misha greets Jensen with a kiss and a smile, then immediately starts assigning him tasks.

He puts Jensen in charge of making the salad. Misha handles the fish, lining a pan with foil, laying the fish on top and then covering it with grapefruit and spices before popping it into the oven. 

Not five minutes later, Jensen's in the bathroom holding his hand under the faucet. Blood drips freely from the deep cut he unintentionally sliced into his middle finger when his kitchen knife slipped on the cutting board. Misha is circling around him, digging through a messy cabinet looking for the first aid kit he swears he has somewhere. 

"A ha!" Misha exclaims when he surfaces, holding a box of superhero Band-Aids triumphantly. 

Jensen looks down at his finger. The blood flow seems to be slowing, at least. Misha grabs a washcloth, one of the fancy, frilly kinds, from a hook. It's not meant to be used quite like this, but Misha wraps it around Jensen's finger, applying a firm pressure.

"You know, you could have just told me you don't cook," Misha scolds.

Jensen rolls his eyes. "To be fair, making a salad is not 'cooking.'"

"Well, you could have told me you can't make a salad."

Misha pulls back the washcloth and checks Jensen's finger. It's stopped bleeding, so Misha pulls a Superman Band-Aid out of the box and nimbly yanks it open. "Yeah, sorry - I think I might have bled on the radishes," Jensen says as Misha wraps the bandage around his finger.

"It's okay, there's still the - " Misha stops short, his eyes going wide. "Fuck!"

Misha races out of the bathroom, Jensen close behind him. When they run into the kitchen, it's just starting to fill with smoke. Misha hurries to the oven and opens its door. More smoke billows out, so Jensen rushes over and cracks a window before the smoke detector can go off. 

When Jensen turns back around, Misha's peering sadly into the pan he's just pulled out. The once-pink salmon is blackened and charred, the grapefruit unrecognizable. The smell of burned fish hits Jensen's nose and he gags. 

At that noise, Misha looks up. "I could, maybe... cut off the burned parts?"

Jensen chuckles, a sound that turns into a full-blown snicker at the pout on Misha's face. Soon, though, Misha is laughing with him. They giggle together until they're doubled over, gasping for air, faces red and tear-streaked.

The only thing that comes out perfect is the only thing that neither one of them touched - the store-bought, bakery fresh coconut cream pie. Jensen lets Misha cut them both big slices, and they alternate feeding each other bites until their plates are clean.

*****

The first time they break up is the only time they break up.

They're in bed in Chicago when Misha starts staring at him.

It's not entirely unusual for Misha to stare at Jensen. At first, it made him uncomfortable; under Misha's gaze, he felt like he was being stripped bare, even when he was already naked. But as time went on, he grew more accustomed to it, along with the random things about Jensen that Misha would comment on as he stared.

This time, though, Misha turns away. It's dim in the hotel room, and he fumbles toward the nightstand. He makes a triumphant noise when he finds whatever he's looking for. When he turns back, he's got his phone in hand. The screen lights up when Misha flips it open.

Jensen squints until his eyes adjust to the sudden spot of brightness. When they do, he sees that Misha is aiming the phone's tiny camera at him. Reflexively, he throws up a hand to block it. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a picture," Misha says, grabbing Jensen's hand and pulling it away.

He lets Misha hold his hand down, but Jensen leans away from the phone. “Why?”

“Would you just - Hold still.” The phone emits a fake shutter noise when Misha clicks the photo button and the flash goes off.

Jensen purses his lips, letting his dimples show. He leans over and looks at the screen. It's a picture of his eye in extreme closeup, with the camera's flash reflecting off the lamp in the background. “Why did you just take that picture?”

As usual, Misha points out something random that Jensen never noticed about himself before when he says, “You have freckles on your eyelids.” Then he starts poking quickly at the phone, his fingers flying over the keys. 

“Mish, what are you doing?" Jensen asks, reaching for the phone. Misha tilts to keep it out of his reach. When he's done typing whatever he's typed, he holds down one key and the phone beeps happily. Jensen has to practically tackle him to reach the thing, but when he finally grabs it from Misha, he sees an open website and the picture of himself in the middle of a tweet. "What did you just do? Delete that!”

Misha looks at him, utterly puzzled. “Why?” 

Jensen moves without thinking, climbing out of the bed and clamoring for his pants. He pulls them on in one violent motion. “Because it’s too much, okay?”

He doesn't look over when Misha speaks. “I don’t understand - “

Finding his shirt balled up in a corner, Jensen grabs it along with his sneakers and makes his way quickly to the door. “Just… forget it. Forget all of it." He pauses with his hand on the knob and takes a deep breath before finishing, "I can’t do this anymore.”

“Jensen, wait...”

He's already got one foot out the door when the tone in Misha's voice almost turns him around, almost draws him right back into the bed. There's an apology on the tip of Jensen's tongue when his own phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out and, flipping it open, sees the text from Jared. 

`did u c wut M just tweeted?`

Jensen slams his phone shut at the same time the door slams behind him.

*****

The first time Jensen says it, it takes them both by surprise.

Misha's hair is longer than usual, curling down his neck and over the collar of his shirt. His beard is at least two weeks old. His aviator sunglasses are too big for his face, and everything combines to give Misha the air of a trying-too-hard college professor, as if he's going to walk into a classroom, dramatically throw the textbook away and then start an impromptu drum circle.

Jensen doesn't see any of that. He can't focus on anything other than the fact that Misha is wearing a gaudy red tie that has nothing to do with the rest of his outfit. Jensen doesn't see the silly belt buckle or the fact that Misha's pants are maybe half an inch too short. Misha's tie is the only thing Jensen can see; he's a bull and the tie is the red cape Misha is waving in front of him.

Jensen means to comment on the tie, opens his mouth to snark on it, to point out how it doesn't match anything else that Misha is wearing. He intends to make fun of Misha for even owning that tie - it's too wide to be in style, and Jensen wants to ask if Misha bought it for his college graduation 20 years ago.

When Jensen opens his mouth to say all those things, what comes out is, "I just fucking love you."

He snaps his mouth shut with a click.

Misha's wearing sunglasses, so Jensen can't see the look in his eyes when he starts, "Jens - "

But Jensen interrupts. He's going to take it back, or at least temper it somehow, add 'like a brother,' maybe, something that will make what he just said mean less than what it actually does. He organizes his words quickly, gets them clear in his own head, then says, "I mean, I really fucking love you. And I'm sorry, Mish, I'm so sorry."

Again, it's not what he planned to say. 

Misha takes his sunglasses off, folds them up and slides them into the pocket of the blazer that doesn't work with the rest of his outfit, including the damn red tie. He fixes Jensen with a stare and Jensen finds he can't look away. 

"Say something." Jensen can't bring himself to be embarrassed by the pleading tone of his own voice.

Misha studies him, his expression inscrutable. He's searching Jensen's face for something, and although Jensen isn't sure what, he hopes that Misha finds it. 

Finally, Misha's face changes, brightens like the sun breaking through a cluster of clouds. He leans forward, closing the space between them, and kisses Jensen's mouth. It's soft and nearly contemplative. Jensen's fingers go numb.

Misha pulls away slowly. He runs his hand down Jensen's arm before joining their hands together and squeezing once. Jensen looks down at their tangled fingers, still unable to feel his own, then back up at Misha's face.

"I forgive you," Misha says. 

*****

The first time Misha says it, it's not a surprise.

They're sitting on the couch, Jensen's sock-clad feet in Misha's lap. Misha rubs at them absently with one hand. In his other hand, he's holding a book, but he hasn't turned a page in several minutes. Instead, he's studying Jensen face.

At first, Jensen pretends to ignore him; he's trying to concentrate on the article he's reading in his own magazine. Eventually, Jensen realizes that he's read the same paragraph five times and still doesn't know what it says, at which point he puts down the magazine and looks over at Misha. 

In that moment, Jensen can see it coming, can read the look in Misha's eyes as clearly as if the words were written on a Times Square billboard. It's obvious, can be read in the crease of Misha's brow, the slight flutter of his eyelashes and the tilt of his mouth. So when Misha leans his head back and plainly says, "I love you," Jensen is ready to say it back.

Instead, Jensen answers, "I was worried you'd never say it." He bites his lip when the words escape.

Misha's expression is a mix of worry and surprise. He puts his book aside, face down on the end table, and shifts on the couch. Jensen's feet are still on him. Misha grasps them firmly and starts to massage.

"I wanted to say it a year ago," Misha nearly whispers. 

Jensen is quick to reply, "I know." He's surprised to find that it's true, that he did know. That he's known the whole time.

"You did?" Misha runs his knuckles of one hand over the soles of Jensen's feet, then continues upward, landing his warm hand on Jensen's calf.

"I... yeah," Jensen admits. He tosses his own magazine onto the coffee table.

There's a long hesitation. Misha's hand on his foot stills, and he looks away, his eyes unfocused. "That's why you..."

Misha trails off, but Jensen waits, silent. He knows what the question is, understands what Misha is asking, but he doesn't really want to answer. Jensen's worried that the answer will make Misha take it all back. Finally, when it's clear that Misha is waiting for him, Jensen responds, "Yeah."

There's a sharp intake of breath that isn't a dramatic gasp. It sounds more like the deep breath before the plunge. And it is, because Misha asks, "And now?"

Jensen doesn't hesitate, the honest answer racing out of him like a caged tiger finally set free. "I'm in. I'm all in."

Misha seems to contemplate that for a long time, so long that Jensen wonders if the conversation is over. Eventually, Misha squeezes Jensen's calf, catches his eye and breathes, "Okay."

"Okay," Jensen confirms immediately. 

Misha smiles at him, a confident, reassuring expression, then reaches over to grab his book. When he cracks it open and starts to read again, Jensen leans over and retrieves his magazine.

The silence between them is easy, and Jensen finds that he can concentrate on his article again. Soon, he's so deeply absorbed in the story that he almost doesn't notice when Misha clears his throat. But he does, looking to see Misha staring at him once again.

"Me too," Misha says as soon as Jensen meets his eyes.

Jensen smiles. "I know."


End file.
